


Barricade

by stitchy



Series: Barricade [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Time Skip Filler, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchy/pseuds/stitchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been struggling to keep his feelings at bay for everyone's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barricade

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous kudos to janto321 for beta-ing, and cheering on my favorite self-indulgence: self-denying Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

Sun Tzu

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up in recovery, feeling distinctly scooped out. The steady beep of machinery measured out the moments before he could bear to open his eyes. They reluctantly adjusted to the light until a familiar weary face came into view. John’s sigh of relief washed over him and for a moment he was unsure how much of the past week’s events might be some elaborate dream. John couldn’t be pleased to see him when he’d just managed to rip the rug out from under him again. How could John smile at Sherlock when his failure to protect the man ended in betrayal and hospital beds?

“You and I have a tremendous amount of housekeeping to do,” murmured John. The hand that hovered over Sherlock's own clenched a bit.

“John,” he croaked- “If you want me to clean the bathtub I may need to take a rain-check.”

“Don't make any promises you don't mean to keep, Sherlock.” John mastered his expression, which couldn’t seem to pick between a slightly manic smile, and a commanding scowl. “I'm glad you're alive.”

“You'll have to be glad enough for the both of us, I'm feeling a bit ambivalent,” Sherlock winced. He shifted the bed's position upright, while John routed around the bed to check the IV. “Where's Mary?”

“I put her in a cab home,” was John's terse response. He took a sudden interest in the tiled floor and condition of his nails. Sherlock's brain was still swimming in morphine, and he imagined what it must have looked like the first time John kept vigil for him. Was there blood crusted in his nail beds then?

“What did you say to her?”

“That we weren't finished with this yet. I needed to see you through.”

“Good,” Sherlock affirmed.

“Good? How could any of this possibly be good?” John began to stalk across the room, his Not At All Amused Smile fixed as tightly as his fists. “She shot- she killed you! You actually died on the table and you want me to 'trust her'? On what planet can you imagine I’d trade your life for her lies?”

“Running her off with threats isn't an option. You and your child,” Sherlock said pointedly- “are safer so long as you don't shut her out. She won't hurt you. She'll protect you.” John stilled. “But her enemies won't mind inflicting collateral damage. Neither will Magnussen.”

“Right.” John scrubbed his eyes and sat down again.

Sherlock watched the evening’s revelations and trauma weigh on his friend. Only a few hours ago he'd been in a different hospital bed with John at his side. He fussed amicably over Sherlock, who was feigning some loopy babble while he waited for an opportunity to escape. He'd prattled about clueless clients and Mycroft- to John's delight, and lamented about experiments that would spoil in his absence. John had promised to look in on them, and dispose of any caustic materials before he brought around Lestrade for a visit that afternoon. With his guardian absent Sherlock took his chance to protect John in return. Faithful John, who had spent the better part of last winter drilling it into Sherlock's head that _Friends Protect People_ \- and they do that by _Sharing Pertinent Information, You Berk_. So Sherlock devised a way to show John, not just tell him. He wondered at the infinite bargains he would make for John's safety. He could die for John, and he'd tried that. But John had asked for him to live, instead. Trusting Mary to preserve John might seem unlikely from the outside, but it aligned with his priorities. Beside him, John sat with a clenched jaw, staring quietly while he formed the question nagging him since the empty house.

“One question. I'm only going to ask you once, Sherlock. I need you to be honest with me.” John focused on his friend's face, searching for a bluff. “I'm serious. Did you know...what she was, before she shot you?”

“No,” Sherlock said firmly. John's eyes searched every corner and line of Sherlock's face.

“How could you miss it?” He sounded disappointed, and though Sherlock would gladly blame himself to spare John, he couldn't possibly put words to it that wouldn't add to the confusion. He'd missed it just like he'd missed so many things related to John while swinging between extremes of Heart and Head.

“You said 'One question' only,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mycroft knew, however.”

“Mycroft did?”

“He got in touch.”

“Is there a plan, Sherlock? Because I swear to God if you leave me out again-” John's look of lingering hurt made up Sherlock's mind for him.

“Apparently there's been a plan for some time now.”

“Are we on board with it then?”

“Shot it to hell, actually.” _Choice of words, Sherlock,_  he reprimanded himself.

“Well. You know how antagonizing Mycroft pleases me.”

Sherlock chuckled hard enough to jar his wound again. It was one of the first things Sherlock knew about John Watson that he liked immensely, in fact. John tutted and made Sherlock promise to be quiet and still for a few minutes while he rounded up some refreshments.

Over some pudding and fruit cups Sherlock explained to John how Mycroft had known what Mary was, and who held her leash. Mycroft had imagined that upon Sherlock's return to London, he would rend the couple apart before the wedding with his customary “Tactlessness”. _Selfishness_ , Sherlock edited to himself. Mycroft thought perhaps that Mary might even back off if she possessed an ounce of self preservation. Her willingness to bear the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who might discern her identity was unanticipated. The morning of the wedding, Mycroft intervened. He arranged the C.A.M. telegram to force Mary's hand. The best case scenario would have her apprehended for the attempted (or even fulfilled) murder of Magnussen, and only the minimum of her transgressions need come to light. That night, privy to news of the pregnancy, Mycroft no longer foresaw an outcome without at least one unintended casualty. The ball was already in motion. _And it did draw her out_ , Sherlock gave credit.

She was quick about it. After two weeks on honeymoon and another two innocuously occupying John with domesticity (keeping Sherlock inefficient, volatile), she was ready to maneuver. Apart from his minder, Sherlock fell into what looked like a relapse. With him rendered unwatchful she could eliminate Magnussen's threat. When John dragged Sherlock out of a flophouse it wasn't ideal. He would be put back on the rails and she had to act _that night_  while Sherlock and John were preoccupied. Instead they wandered into Mycroft's puppet show and accidentally cut the strings.

“-There's something Mycroft is holding back.”

“Any idea what?” John asked. Sherlock only shook his head fractionally. “Maybe we should read the memory stick, then.” His fingers brushed the pocket he'd plunged it in earlier that evening.

“No. She knows that if you want answers you'll find them with my help. Handing the stick over is just running interference. I'm certain its a very sanitized account meant to placate our curiosity.” Sherlock paused when John groaned at the implication that he'd been played yet again. The decency of John Watson was simultaneously his most endearing quality and most exploitable fault. That Mary had abused this enraged Sherlock, but he was uncomfortably aware he could turn that disgust inward as well.

“How-”

“She's seen you forgive unforgivable, terrible transgressions, John.”   _Mine,_  Sherlock willed him to understand. “She said herself this would be too much. She doesn’t expect you to forgive her. That’s why you must.” _You won't/don't love me anymore_.

 

******

 

Several days later when Sherlock had stabilized enough to take short ventures from his bed he received a pair of visitors that made him wish he was comatose after all. His mother and father arrived late morning with a knobbly knit blanket and flowers. Mummy fussed and petted for a half hour until John could no longer abide the surreality and opted to make a lunch run. He never did like to leave Sherlock outnumbered, but it was for the best.

“We've been subsisting on nothing but canteen food and Mrs Hudson's leftovers all week. Might be nice to have something that's only been cooked once,” explained John, casting Sherlock a conspiratorial glance.

“Rare delicacy,” he grinned back. It was the sort of infectious thing hospitals couldn’t combat, so John smiled too.

“I'll come with you,” Sherlock's father offered.

“Nothing with brown sauce,” Sherlock and Mummy said at once.

“Never,” John and Mr. Holmes replied. John flushed, and Mr. Holmes swung closed the door for a moment to retrieve his jacket, “Oops, no. I think this one'll be yours, John.”

“Err-” John articulated helplessly. He took the coat. “All right, then.” The door clicked shut behind them.

Mummy pulled up a chair to Sherlock's side and made one final adjustment to the heap of blanket on his lap. For ages he had avoided allowing this gathering of people, bewaring his mother's intuition. With two children as withdrawn as uncommunicative as the Holmes brothers she had to border on psychic to relate to them at all.

“Really, Sherlock. Sometimes I think you create these obstacles for yourself as an excuse to not to get involved,” she said. Sherlock arranged a perplexed look for her benefit. “You let him get married!”

 _Mummy never disappoints,_ Sherlock thought. If Sherlock was finally aware of the depth of his regard for his friend, as inhibited as he was- of course she could see it.

“In my defense, I didn't have a strong position to negotiate from, being recently undead.”

“Well, she must never have seen him look at you before she went through with it,” theorized Mummy. Her keen eyes inspected the matching blue of her son's.

“Can we not-” _ever ever ever talk about this ever._

“She does know then. Well. You'd best watch your other kidney. I'm sure you know the numbers on murderous lovers better than I do.”

“It was the liver, Mummy,” he corrected. It was for the best that he refused to engage her other notions. She nodded.

“If you were facing your shooter how come Myc hasn't dug her up, yet?”

“It's an ongoing investigation. I've been convalescing.”

“You didn't correct me,” she pointed out. Sherlock squinted back.

“I did. It was the liver, Mummy.”

“Gun violence is statistically a male act, Sherlock.” She patted his hand and forced a grim smile.

 _Ah._  Sherlock cleared his throat and made a show of reaching for his glass of water. Mummy had caught him out like this countless times, but it was never any less humiliating. She nudged him to scoot over so she could sit on the corner of the bed beside him. He handed her back his drained glass, which she discarded before wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I think it would be a danger to tell you more.” He didn't want to beg with her, and hoped she could hear what he wasn't verbalizing.

“I assume there's something more going on that will horrify me. May I also assume Myc has it under control?”

“Yes,” Sherlock promised. His mother looked determined to believe this would be the truth. She rubbed a slow circle into his back and hummed until Sherlock leaned in to rest his head against hers. Just for a moment. It had been a long few weeks, after all.

“If you or John need anything we can give, you must know you can come to us. Advice especially.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Mummy-” but he cut off when his mother poked him at the hip.

“You'll hear me out, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, since you're not going to ask for it. I don't care if you're a family man, or work everyday until your ninety-five. But maybe you're not built to be absolutely alone anymore. Not when you've rebuilt yourself since you've met him. You made a place for him in your life, and whatever is- well you can't let people go around shooting you over it. You need to start advocating for the way you feel.” Her slowly circling hand stilled and she turned and nodded to indicate it was his turn to agree. Sherlock frowned, but nodded. Mummy curled her hand around one cheek so she could trap the other with a kiss.

“It's not a good time,” he mumbled. He already knew what canned wisdom would be her reply. She was a woman who had prioritized herself out of a professional life by trading one passion for another.

“The right moment is a myth, Sherlock. If it's important you make the time.”

 

*****

 

The next afternoon was a rare window of opportunity, John had gone to Baker Street to have a wash up and did not appoint a visitor to mind him. Sherlock managed to slip out with his pump and strayed a block away from the hospital to fetch his own lunch. The waiter at the bistro glared but took Sherlock's order all the same. Sherlock amused himself through most of his pasta by debating if it would be Mary or Magnussen who managed to approach him whilst unchaperoned. When Sherlock returned from his illicit outing, John was sat cross-armed on his bed.

“Since we can't seem to keep you in the hospital after all, you're being released tomorrow. I hope you're satisfied,” John said. He looked pleased, Sherlock observed. A rambunctious patient was a more heartening sight than a lethargic one. He could see after John's contentment on that front by being a pest, as it came naturally to him. Easy enough.

 

*******

 

Being under the same roof with John again should have felt more like a victory, but instead Sherlock felt like 221b was a barricade. They were entrenched in some nebulous conflict where the peace was more dangerous than the fight. Even Mrs Hudson seemed to be operating on yellow alert that morning, requesting they lock their upstairs door. She'd been roughed up by the Americans and stalked by snipers in her own home yet never insisted it before. She was uncharacteristically quiet as she bustled about the flat, drifting things back into place that had been wayward these past few weeks. When she finally seemed satisfied with the state of the room Mrs Hudson paused at Sherlock's side, making a small choked noise.

“Young man, you really must try to outlive me,” she said, clutching at Sherlock's curly head to deposit a kiss.

“Nonsense, Mrs Hudson,” he said while allowing it.

“You're to look after each other, or there will be me to answer to,” reminded Mrs Hudson. Her expression was grim, similar to maternal savagery his own mother had exhibited. She'd been there when Mary was revealed to something darker than expected. She had her perceptive moments as well, Sherlock noted. “Let me know if you step out, John.”

John kept Sherlock camped out on the couch the first day back. He tried to convince him it'd be fun, like skiving off school- but it was obvious to them both he was struggling with letting Sherlock out of his sight. _Keep your eyes fixed on me_ , kept looping unbidden in Sherlock's brain whenever he caught him staring. John sat in his chair, re-reading the same paragraphs three and four times a piece. Sherlock concluded that John wanted to be caught fretting, if he couldn’t be bothered to mask it better.

“Out with it,” he barked.

“You said, in the hospital- Mary doesn’t expect me to forgive her. And that was why I have to.”

“You'll need to make nice, before the baby comes. If we want to avoid the King Solomon drama, at any rate.”

“I can't imagine it,” he muttered. His physical demeanor slipped into something sullen that could rival any Sherlock strop.

“Well, you can either tell her all is forgiven as part of the plan, or I can convince you that you actually forgive her, and you can have your boring little life back. What would you prefer?”

“You think you can talk me into loving a woman who, for all I know- is a mass murder?”

“I have a few months.”

“You're unbelievable,” he grumbled.

Sherlock couldn't argue with that, and shrugged. John sighed. He was surprised by the belief John placed in him up to this point, really. Even this fraction of trust had been hard earned over months of careful repair to their previous camaraderie. Sherlock was further surprised when he discovered the broken pieces reassembled into something new, but one thing remained the same- John's faith was a reward he wished to be worthy of. Sherlock turned back to his research. If they were to do battle side by side they would need a strategy.

“Why can't we just turn her in now for shooting you and have done with?” John asked suddenly. Sherlock peered over his laptop, where he was juggling between information on extradition and the legal precedents concerning newborns of incarcerated mothers. Momentarily he worried John had noticed over his shoulder, but he was still across the room in his chair. He looked hopeful.

“Magnussen will block her conviction by either his testimony or influence. By the time Mary was released you could be sure you'd never see your child again. Magnussen would likely accuse you of my attempted murder.”

Sherlock worried what might happen if she was feeling particularly possessive and John wasn't brought into custody. If she felt there was no chance of reconciliation, might she do something horrific? _If she can't have you no one else will_ , he thought, before dismissing the idea as fatuous. John shot him a questioning look.

Sherlock continued- “Magnussen wants Mycroft, and that's just another way to pressure me on his way to my brother.”

After a late supper Sherlock experimented with his range of mobility, testing the stamina required to play his violin again. He was stiff, his long unused muscles aching to remain poised. Drawing the bow was not impossible, but it was clear his finesse would not return until he rehabilitated further. Maybe there was such a thing as a physical therapist for musicians, like there were for athletes. John might know. He played as best he could, through some Sarasate (he could never resist this arrangement of Faust when he felt restless), and onto Bizet until he finally dropped his bow arm and groaned in discomfort.

“You're due to change your dressing. Sit."

Sherlock obeyed, and settled in his chair after tucking away his instrument. John snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and tilted a nod at Sherlock to uncover the wound. His fingers worked down the placket while John kneeled in front of him, setting up his supplies, fresh bandaging and a small bowl of water. Once his shirt front was peeled away, John leaned in to inspect, one gloved hand at Sherlock's knee. He bit the tip of his tongue trying not to remember the last time they'd been in this particular position. Potential cut short. _No_ , he stopped himself remembering. It was unbearable how often and how easily John disarmed him with a touch. He needed to stay aloof for both their sakes.

"Nothing to worry about," John assured him, having carefully peeled one corner to peek at the wound.

“Please," Sherlock hissed, as the rest of the tape stripped away. "I just came in for an estimate.”

"So sensitive," smirked John. "We need to work on your sense of self-preservation, you know. This is killing me." John swabbed at the perimeter of the bandaged area, still yellowed by betadine.

"That's what I'm trying to avoid," Sherlock pointed out. John paused his gentle cleaning of the wound to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Promise me, this time. If we go down, we go down together," he said.

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock-"

"The world needs John Watson, I won't be the one to deny them." He was all too familiar with the way his self denial ached, and imagined it magnified.

"What about Sherlock Holmes!?" burst John.  _Am I important? To some people._

In his exasperation John pressed rather harder than he ought, and Sherlock winced. "Stings!"

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I've got something that'll take the edge off."

John finished pat drying the area, and sealed over a new gauze. Sherlock buttoned himself back into his shirt while he watched John stuff the the old dressings in a sandwich bag before discarding it. John went into a part of the kitchen beyond his line of sight, but the clinking of glass was promising. The doctor came back into the sitting room with a bottle of Dewar's whisky and two tumblers.

"From Lestrade, on the event of your second resurrection," he explained, "But I'm being horrible allowing it at all, so you're going easy on it."

"I do have medical supervision."

John poured them out, giving Sherlock a much smaller measure than his own helping. Sherlock couldn't mask the shudder that quaked him at his first sip.

"Bit chill," he excused.

John tossed him the blanket from the back of his own armchair, and savoured a quick taste before making up his mind. "I think I'll build a fire."

Sherlock spread the blanket over his lap and watched John in the fireplace. The familiar scene helped to dispel the defensive worry that had clouded the enthusiasm he felt about his homecoming.  All afternoon he had watched John recharge. He sat in his old chair, he favoured the same cups, and paused in the same patch of floor to stretch out his shoulder periodically. The reestablishing of old routines restored Sherlock, as well. Being holed-up in Baker Street was looking better with he and John joking again. Sitting together.

 

****

 

"Fire's dying. Get up, we'll hack your chair for kindling," Sherlock said, kicking out at it from under his blanket. He was muzzy from the combination of drink and medication. The reigns between his wit and what he allowed himself to vocalize were lax.

"Over my dead body," John exclaimed. He was similarly melted in his seat, and even more inebriated.

"Hah, no. Probably over mine, if I tried." Sherlock could still remember John's indignation at the chair's recent disappearance.

“How could _anyone_  believe I would try to kill you, Sherlock? I-” John quickly swallowed the unfinished thought with another sip of whisky.

"You've threatened it often," Sherlock said fondly.

"Go on, what would finally put me over the edge?" John laughed and swirled his glass.

"I've become obsessed with you," Sherlock proclaimed in a stage-whisper, as though he were sharing the suspicion the Queen was in fact extraterrestrial. "Unable to bear my jealousy, you attempt to free yourself by my death." John giggled. It was a delightful noise, so Sherlock pressed on.

"Perhaps I killed someone."

"Can't talk. I'm no saint," John winked. Or Sherlock thought he winked. It was hard to tell, so he leaned forward. Couldn't miss anything else.

"Me neither," Sherlock mumbled.

"No shit. Saw those headlines."

"Hardly a scholarly publication, John."

"Badly researched, was it?"

"Yes."

"Oh I see, so you're a rubbish shag," John ventured shamelessly, possessing the advantage of having consumed at least three times as much alcohol as Sherlock, who was mortified.

"Janine... would not be a competent authority on the matter," he explained delicately.

"So, you and Janine weren’t-"

"Intimate. No. It was a transaction. I told her I needed a girlfriend for appearances on a case, and in return I'd provide her with benign but profitable information she could use to break into tabloid journalism. I didn't know I would end up featuring, but as she took a blow to the head in the line of duty I can't really blame her. You already know the Magnussen connection, of course."

"That makes me feel somewhat better." John sputtered and continued-"That you didn't entirely lead her on, I mean. She seemed...fond of you," John mouthed the words like he was trying on a new tongue. Sherlock collapsed backward, exhausted by the mere memory of the ordeal.

"So much so that she insisted on schooling me in details to add verisimilitude to the act, and I believe it was her hope I might get swept up in the moment and relent, establishing a genuine relationship," said Sherlock, trying to sound more collected than he felt. He drained his glass.

"She ‘schooled you in the details’? What, did you have snogging lessons?"

Sherlock choked, causing his chest to twinge as he heaved, hand clutching the unappreciative wound. John wobbled to the edge of his chair and reached out for his shoulder.

"All right, all right, take it easy mate." John ran his hand repeatedly from Sherlock's elbow to shoulder until he recovered himself again.

"Ahm, well-" with firm squeeze John cut him off.

"We should turn in. Long day, and you're still healing."

Some minutes later Sherlock stood in front of the mirror in his room. His reflection revealed a much thinner frame then last he'd seen. His skin felt revolting, as he was not allowed his usual regime of hygiene while in hospital. Only the patch at the center of his chest surrounding his bandage felt satisfactory. He generally preferred to sleep either nude or in briefs, but John had reminded him to protect the bandaging with a fresh shirt. He pulled a heather gray top out of his dresser. He could still hear John moving around in the other room, setting up a fresh bed for himself on the couch. John had insisted on staying on the same floor until Sherlock was more worthy of the cardio required to climb stairs, should he need help in the middle of the night. Sherlock thought this was a bit melodramatic, but now that he'd changed out of trousers into pajama bottoms easily enough, pulling on a fresh vest was proving problematic. He wandered back out to the sitting room bare-chested, raising the shirt like a flag of surrender. John weaved towards him to help.

"Need a hand?" John slipped one sleeve up his bad side before popping the collar over Sherlock's head.

"Or a new torso, if you've a spare," mused Sherlock, to John's appreciating laugh.

"In this flat, you never know." He took Sherlock's good hand in his own to lead it up to the other sleeve. The slip of their joined hands up his trunk was enough to stop Sherlock's breath. John's unescorted fingers slipping back down his oblique nearly stopped his heart. Sherlock could still smell the fermented sweetness on his breath, now John was stood so close.

"Sherlock-"

"Goodnight, John." He turned and retreated to his bed.

 

******

 

October had been the best month Sherlock had in ages. He was well enough to take a few cases, he hadn't suffered any bodily harm, and John was taking a sabbatical from his practice. There were days where he could almost imagine he had never been forced to leave Baker Street. He woke up just before ten the morning of November 5th, having crashed after a three day case. So had his mobile apparently, which bleated about it's lack of battery life from his nightstand. He plugged it in and checked the flood of texts and missed calls before he registered that he'd returned to London exactly one year ago. Amongst his messages, he received a text from Mary. He had been reaching out to her periodically, checking up on pre-natal visits, mostly. John dropped by the house every so often to take care of some chores, pick up mail, and the like. John and Sherlock agreed was important to keep an open line of communication, but this was the first time she had contacted him first since his release from hospital.

__________________iMessage____________________

Nov 05, 2014, 08:23

Inducing Jan 10 – M

He read it for what it was; a due-date and a deadline. For all the air-clearing, devising, and investigation they had done in the past four months- they still hadn't scripted this part of the plan. The reconciliation was key to John’s safety, should anything go poorly with Magnussen. If Sherlock was rendered unable, he was still certain he could rely on Mary in that regard. Not for the first time, Sherlock hoped that if John could want something once, he could want it again. Some how John could integrate his wife and child with the danger he both craved and resisted. As terrifying as that possibility was, the reverse outcome was equally daunting. What if everything went perfectly? With Magnussen and Mary neutralized, there would be a motherless newborn to sort out. John might go home. John could find out Sherlock didn't want him to go home. He forced that line of thought to another corner of his mind.

Sherlock dressed himself while playing his voice mails on speaker. There was a summons from Mycroft, set ups for information drops with two of his homeless network, and a sociable invite from Lestrade. Dull. He ventured out into the flat, already certain that John was visiting with Mrs Hudson for some mundane reason or another. John's preferred coat was still at home on it's hook, and lately he would leave notes if he was doing anything more menacing than groceries. It wasn’t that he was spooked, Sherlock knew. He was trying to lead by example to establish a habit of transparency in their partnership. _We go down together_ , he had said. At least he’d left a fresh kettle. Sherlock picked out a mildly appealing case from his website and told the prospective client he’d waive any fee if they arrived in the next hour. He could use a dry run.

John returned shortly after he finished his tea. The scandalized expression on his face told Sherlock Mrs. Hudson was in a _sharing_  mood this morning. He fetched a newspaper from an end table and chucked it at the other man.

“Morning,” John said, catching it as he collapsed into his armchair.

“Still,” yawned Sherlock.

“Yeah, I thought you'd be out another three hours. Or days.”

“Had a text. Mary's inducing on the 10th of January.”

John's face turned to stone at the mention of his estranged wife. He unfurled his newspaper and hummed acknowledgment, attempting to head off discussion.

“You'll have to go back to her. Before we deal with Magnussen.” John only flipped a page loudly. Sherlock frowned, and tried a different approach- “I know you're concerned you can't hold up a convincing front for that long. If I can sham a relationship for a month without knowing what one is, you ought to be capable.” John huffed and rattled his paper again. “Besides you can keep busy crib building and child proofing,”

“Sherlock- I can't not be angry!” John broke, dropping his paper. “I'll never not care what she did.”

“She won't expect you to blank slate your anger. Apathy would suspicious,” Sherlock reminded him. John shook his head violently as a bitter smile formed.

“You and I- we both have a body count. But we wouldn't ever-” John heaved an exhale that marked a battle between his own exhilaration and shame. “Not for money, Sherlock.”

“I know.” _We fight. We hold our own. You are a defender. You have never been a predator_ , Sherlock thought, but none of the consoling words could find their way out.

“And to be willing to discard _your_ life? Of all people.” John bit his lip and nearly whispered, “You can do so much more. You have so much more to do.” He resumed reading his paper, held up like a shield.

“Lestrade asked us to meet up for drinks tonight. A get together,” Sherlock said to offer a different course of conversation.

“Yeah, he said- but I didn't think...”

“If you don't want to go.” Sherlock shrugged. It was probably going to be an evening of people obliquely acknowledging Sherlock's return from the dead, with a side event of Lestrade's unimaginative pursuit of Molly Hooper. Certainly not an event he would attend for its own merits. Lestrade was probably counting on John to to keep him entertained, or at the very least- buffered. That was something Sherlock could put up with.

“Wh- hang on, I'm just surprised you even brought it up. It'd be nice to go out.” John flashed a genuine, if brief and suspicious smile over his lowered newspaper.

The doorbell rang downstairs.

“Speaking of which, we've a case. Ought to be quick.”

There was a bit of commotion downstairs while Mrs. Hudson and the client wrestled with a pram. A moment later their landlady ushered in a young woman laden with an overstuffed messenger bag on one shoulder, and one-year-old boy on the opposite hip. The woman looked nothing short of beleaguered, with red rimmed eyes and a misbuttoned jumper under a jacket that showed signs of travel sickness on the right sleeve. John shot Sherlock a look of surprise, and pulled out the client chair.

“Hello, I'm John Watson. And Sherlock Holmes, as you know,” he greeted. The woman exhaled in a great huff as she sat, plopping bag to floor, and child to lap.

“Thank you. Susan Briggs,” she offered a meek handshake to John.

“Good morning. This must be the 'Imposter Baby' you've emailed me about,” Sherlock noted, crouching slightly. John's eyebrows shot up. “And who are you purporting to be?” Sherlock asked the tiny boy.

“Peed!” The boy squirmed without mercy. His mother relented, easing him to the floor, and taking out a toy from her bag, as well as an envelope.

“-Peter. My son Peter Briggs,” Mrs. Briggs corrected, her brow furrowed deeply. “Only- Well I'm not sure where to start.”

“Start at the beginning, Mrs. Briggs. Where and when was he born?” Sherlock prompted.

“It was here in London, King's College. January 6th, last year. He's about eleven months,” she supplied. John snorted and she looked slightly offended. “It's one of the leading maternity wards!”

“Oh no, it's only he shares a birthday with Mr. Holmes, here,” he explained. 

The woman laughed. "That's a funny coincidence. All right- well. Peter was born last winter, it was an easy birth, right on time and all. And he's been my everything. Inseparable, of course. My marriage...Well It hasn't been good. It hasn't been good a long while now- before Pete was born, even. Having him made it easier to ignore for a while, but finally I'm looking to divorce. A friend encouraged me to take a-” she paused, and shut her eyes tight. Peter got acquainted with the carpet, finding himself on all fours.

“Mrs. Briggs?” John asked, rising from his seat. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, no. That's just not the beginning, I realize. My husband and I were separated for a while- almost two years ago now. He was so unreliable, and a constant liar. Well- I knew he was probably seeing other women, and so I let myself get caught up in something. Just the once,” she admitted.

“We're not here to pass judgment, Mrs. Briggs,” Sherlock assured her.

“I had an affair with a co-worker. He's called Joshua Natick. He'd always been a friend. And it's possible, I suppose-”

“-That he is Peter's natural father?”

Mrs. Briggs nodded. "I was worried that might be the case, so my friend told me I ought to get a paternity test done, privately- before I pursued a divorce- knowing that I wouldn’t want that to be a surprise if and when the matter of custody was being sorted.”

“Wise precaution,” said Sherlock.

“But when the results came back, having tested against my own DNA and my husband's, the report concluded he wasn't either of our children! I had the lab work it up twice more, and it was the same."

“Interesting.” Sherlock's fingers steepled. There were no hallmarks of a surrogacy scam, there was no monetary gain. He was certain it wasn't a kidnapping turned delusional fantasy, either. Something much more statistically fantastic, perhaps.

“Somehow, there must have been a switch- I don't know if it was intentional or an accident- but- But this is my baby! Peter is my baby and I can't have him taken away. But I can't stay with my husband to protect my custody of him, either- if he's not biologically mine. I just can't Mr. Holmes.” John shifted uneasily in his chair, and she started to sob, which alarmed Peter, who had been alternately scooting and then sitting on his stuffed toy.

“That must have been very unexpected,” Sherlock assured her, offering a tissue box. She took one to dab her nose. “Do you have pictures at all, of your child when he was first born up until now?”

“Of course, of course,” she muttered, clearing her throat and reaching into her bag again. She pulled out a digital camera, and snapped it into the correct feature. Sherlock clicked through the roll. Baby, wrinkled and pink in a cap on a hospital blanket. Baby having a bath. Baby being held. Baby being rocked. Baby being kissed. Baby on the floor- all in a variety of charming colored outfits. All the same baby, certainly.

“May I?” Sherlock gestured to the child, who was now gnawing on his teddy's ear quite happily.

“He's indestructible! Go ahead,” said his mother.

Sherlock leaned down to the baby, catching him around the middle and under his rump, before lifting him and his bear easily. Sherlock smiled down to the little face. Babies couldn't be reasoned with, but they were guileless. They made so-so witnesses. “I don't suppose you have anything to say for yourself in the midst of all this, Peter?” he asked.

“Da!” Mrs. Briggs laughed. Sherlock caught a tender expression that lingered at the corner of John's mouth out of the corner of his eye.

“You're just pleased with the attention, I'm sure. Mind showing me your elbow?”

Prodding past the teddy, he caught a tiny little wrist, and inspected the dimpled arm. Never before had Sherlock's attention been called to this so directly, but really- his hands were massive. Peter's entire hand was barely comparable in length to his own little finger. This was a miniature human. He was suddenly aware he'd never held a baby- certainly not in his adult life. Further more- there was a distinct possibility this was going to change, and soon. Hypothetical scenarios began to flood his imagination, similar to the camera roll he'd just inspected. He stared at the wiggling child until John cough/laughed at his side. He snapped back into focus, and yes- the birthmark he had noticed in the photographs was identical.

“Well if there's been a switch it would have had to occur in hospital. But I doubt it,” he declared. Mrs. Briggs stared at him slack jawed. “No need to worry,” he heard himself coo to the child in his arms, and much as to his mother. “I have a theory. I'll need contact information for Mr. Natick- we will be discreet, of course. Should be solved in time for supper,” he finished with a grin.

“Oh Mr. Holmes, thank you. You have no idea what it means to me, I can't lose my baby,” Mrs. Briggs cried out. She quickly scrolled through her contacts to supply them a mobile number. John scribbled it down, and collected the paternity test paperwork from her while Sherlock and Peter pulled faces at one another.

“You're certain you don't have any information you'd share to save me some leg work?” he asked the baby. “We birthday twins are honor bound to be forthcoming with each other, you know.”

“Da!” agreed the baby. The woman gathered her son back into her arms and thanked them again before departing.

“That was- please feel free to make a horrified face- slightly adorable,” John said, bracing himself for the backlash. Sherlock only shrugged.

“There are approximately 1,942 babies born in the UK every day. Two hundred of those are born prematurely, and in London particularly, two-thirds of babies have at least one foreign parent. Even a busy London hospital will generally have no more than 8 births a day in January- the possibility that two full-term, caucasian male children even existed simultaneously to be switched is slight. I'll begin with the possibility of a bureaucratic mix-up, and you go find Mr. Natick and get a swab.”

“Yeah, right. How do I do that discreetly?”

“Tell him you're on a scavenger hunt,” Sherlock teased, already pulling on his coat.

When they met back at Bart's in the late afternoon, it was as Sherlock had expected. There was simply no other child born at the same time for Peter Briggs to be confused with. John was reticent about how he managed a swab from Mr. Natick, and Sherlock didn't ask, but when tested against the original paternity report, Sherlock was delighted.

“How is that possible?” exclaimed a puzzled John.

“Human chimerism. Mrs. Briggs must possess two distinct sets of genetic material. Her reproductive system is her own twin. She'll have to retest with a cervical smear to have her maternal status upheld legally when it comes to it- but she is the mother.”

“Amazing you thought of it,” grinned John. “Utterly impossible. And you saved her from losing her baby.” He clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

“It was good practice,” Sherlock said, thinking only of holding such a small child.

 

****

 

Disinclined to have a repeat of the fabled stag-do, John made Sherlock swear they wouldn't take a case while drinking, unless It somehow involved Mycroft's immense embarrassment. Sherlock in turn made John swear they wouldn't combine beer and liquor. Lestrade swore they had to accept the shots someone sent “For the Famous Sherlock Holmes and his boyfriend” or else they'd look like pricks. Against his better judgment, Sherlock stood woozily at the bar with Lestrade to get another round of pints. He watched John and Molly at a distance, on either side of the booth they occupied.

“He's brilliant, you know,” John gushed to Molly. “We had a case today, with a baby. It was really strange to see him with it. But I suppose. I hope. Going to be a little more likely, soon?”

“When is the baby due?” Molly squealed back.

“Tenth of uhm-” he swallowed the last of his glass.

“January?” she assisted, to which John nodded enthusiastically. “You're going to be so happy with a new baby.” She watched him with a shrewd gaze.

John swung his head to glance back at Sherlock, who held up two fresh glasses of ale. Lestrade grabbed a pair for he and Molly, and they weaved their way back to the booth.

“Thanks for the round, Greg,” beamed Molly when they settled the glasses on the table. Lestrade gave a slight bow of the head before he slid into the booth next to her, arm along the top of the seat. Sherlock barely noticed as he mirrored the action, his own ungainly limb tucked around John's shoulders.

“I'm just glad we finally got these boys to come out,” Lestrade said. “Show them we appreciate their special brand of... of-”

“Lunacy,” suggested John, slopping his drink as he raised a toast. They clinked glasses. Molly wrinkled her nose at the taste of her beer.

“Augh! What is this? It's awfully bitter,” she spat.

“It's a double barrel, you prefer something else?” Sherlock suggested.

“Yeah, Greg let me out so I can make Sherlock buy me something fruity. Ugh.” She pushed her glass to the middle of the table.

“I'll kill it,” said John, drawing it across the table it next to his other full glass. Molly scooted out of the booth and yanked out Sherlock by the elbow.

“Oh Sherlock, you've really stepped in it now,” she hissed in his ear.

“What have I done?” He was baffled.

“I don't know what on earth happened with Mary, but I know he's been living with you. He wants you around after the baby is born, but he's no clue if you want that too. You had better not push him away like you did after the wedding. I swear to god, Sherlock I will smack you so hard if-” Sherlock grimaced at the memory.

“If what?”

“You two don't sort it out.”

“What's to sort out?”

“You'll both do anything for each other yet neither of you will ask for what you want. It's bloody infuriating,” she muttered before leaning over the bar. “A Madras, please.”

Sherlock watched her think for a long moment, then remembered he was meant to be paying, and dug out his wallet. “If there _were_  things to sort. If it was _the right time._  Where would I start?” he asked.

“Honestly, it's so overdue I wouldn't think it was out of place for you to hire a parade float or a sky writer.”

“Molly-”

“Let him know he has the option to stay, at least. Then tell him you love him and you want to drag him under the table and have your way with him,” she snagged her drink off the counter and rolled her eyes. “What do I care? I'm going to pull Greg into the loo for a snog. Sort it out.”

His brain was much too fuzzy for this. He stared at the back of Molly's head until she made good on her promise and disappeared into the back corridor with a smirking Lestrade. John was alone at the booth now, working on Molly's forsaken beer. Sherlock came back to the table, and gingerly sat down across from him. He thought it was a shame he couldn’t excuse sitting on the same bench anymore. There was his problem, like Molly said. He was unwilling to begin any overture.

“That was a long time coming,” John said, raised eyebrows and head tilted toward the bathrooms.

“Ages,” Sherlock agreed. He sipped at his drink while John told him a joke Lestrade had made earlier. He watched him cross his arms and lean back into the corner of the booth, kicking one foot and then the other onto the bench till his ankles crossed as well. He memorized everything, uncertain if there would be a night-out like this ever again. _You could stay_ , he thought- when John mentioned something vague about next spring. _You could stay_ , when he laughed so hard the corners of his eye glinted with almost tears.

“I think we're gonna call it a night,” Lestrade said, a bit sheepish. He was mussed and red lipped, Molly slightly behind him, absently sorting through her purse.

“Us too,” said John. “Thanks, mate. We'll do this again some other day when we've learned to pace ourselves.” He coughed at Sherlock, who was rubbing his slightly sweaty face with the hand that wasn't wrapped white-knuckled around a half empty glass. Molly pecked him on the cheek before the couple departed.

“Shouldn't have done those shots,” wailed Sherlock through his fingers. “You promised.”

“I promised, Lestrade didn't. Take it up with him.” John slid out of the booth to stand.

“He's already taken up with, you're left.”

“Proud to be your second choice.”

“Never second, John.”

When they arrived back at Baker Street John had come around again to how marvelous Sherlock's resolution of the Imposter Baby was. Sherlock had tried again to find out how John had managed to obtain a cheek cell swab from a stranger, but John only singsonged drunkenly,  _A man has to have his secrets_ , while he filled some cups of water. Sherlock stood at the window, watching a drizzling rain that kept bursting into more torrential pockets. He was close enough to the pane that the icy air mixed his breath into fog that obscured the world outside. It was absurdly cold for this time of year. It made him feel awake.

“I'm not tired, anymore,” he said when John pressed the drink into his hand. He lingered at the window with Sherlock to watch the weather.

“It's not too late.”

He knew what John had meant by it; only the matter of the hour. Still he startled, fearing his evening's distress had been noticed. He shifted his weight and turned slightly toward the other man. They hadn't bothered to turn on any lights in the flat when they came in. The ambient glow from the window was enough to spotlight John's face and yet it shrunk the room. Just the two of them enveloped in that spill of streetlight and the tantalizing proximity of the past four months. The nearer they drifted, the harder it was to remember why he was holding back at all. _You could stay. I could make you stay_.

“Have you ever considered being-” John suppressed a hiccup, “a dad?”

Sherlock balked, unsure of the question's intent or answer. He wasn't confident he'd ever wondered about fatherhood. The more he stretched his beer soaked mind back into the past, all he turned up was a stream of his own father holding his child-self in photographs. It looked comfortable enough. But what on earth would possess someone to entrust Sherlock Holmes with an infant? Wasn't that ultimately what he was hoping, if John chose to stay? He noticed John, still waiting and wondering, pressing holes into the fog on the window.

“Well, it's not likely to occur by accident,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise I never imagined I'd get anyone to coordinate on it deliberately.”

He'd never imagined anyone would consider him a best friend either. Molly's insistence that that Sherlock wanted John, and John wanted to know where he stood with Sherlock rushed his mind. How could he ask for more when he felt so unworthy of what he already had? He'd always been sure his shortcomings would drive anyone away before they came this close.

“ _Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary._ ”

“ _That’s not what people normally say_.”

Then John, his unexpected John, always brave to the point of recklessness asked for him, “With me? Would you coordinate?” He looked up at Sherlock with searching eyes.

“You could stay,” Sherlock said in a breath. _You could stay and I would keep you both safe, you could stay and be mine, you could stay forever._  "If you don't mind having a sociopath around your baby.”

“That's bollocks,” laughed John. “I used to think you said it to let other people down easily, but that's not all of it. It's for your benefit. You say it when you've decided not to regret your behavior. But you can regret. You've proved that.” John studied his face. “Do you feel like that's true?”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“The question is, what are you trying to talk yourself into right now?” John edged closer, stepping between Sherlock and the window. He brought a hand to Sherlock's face and swiped his thumb at a low hanging curl.

Sherlock leaned into the touch until his lips brushed wrist. It wasn't enough contact to to be sure of a fluttering pulse, but he could easily imagine it there, sympathetic to his own thrumming heart. He could seek it out. Pin John to his bed like a specimen, search for the sign of life at his throat with his tongue, or even burrow between his legs, mouth at his femoral artery, and tap back his own rhythm until they beat in sync. With John laid out for examination, he'd peel back all the pretense they had constructed between them. Slip in next to John while the rags of their masquerade petaled the bed more artfully than any roses could. John deserved more than simple roses. He deserved a garden all his own, with earth to plunge his hands into, sunlight to catch in his hair, while a sea breeze wrapped around him. He would take John to a real place like that someday, like he kept him there now, in his mind. He tended to the growth- to the beauty Sherlock had known in life since they met. _You deserve letters of intent and declarations. You should be wooed, in perpetuum, almost to torture, like you have done to me_. He had somehow made Sherlock very old. There will be no reversing this.

“I wouldn't be able to give you back,” he finally murmured. Even if he convinced himself it was only a loan for the sake of the plan, there was a chance of failure. The idea that the last arms John ever laid in might not be his own- Sherlock could flay every inch of skin he'd ever touched and it still wouldn't strip away the loss. It would be more merciful to return him to his Serbian captors.

“Then don't,” John urged. Sherlock crowded him slowly, granting him time to escape.

"I will be unreasonable."

"That will make a nice change." John eased back until his shoulders connected with the glass. Sherlock came as near as he dared, still a finger's length between them.

“Unbearable.”

"I wouldn't have you any other way," John concluded.

"Should I take comfort in that?" Sherlock reached up his hands, unsure of their destination until John caught his wrists and pulled them to anchor against the window, framing him in. He let his body sink until he was flush against John's. The awareness of heat where they made contact in contrast to icy window beneath his fingers compelled him to press closer. His hips connecting with John's could set him ablaze.

"Take whatever you like," John gasped. Sherlock dipped to speak at his ear.

"I would take you to my bed," he confessed. He felt hands slip up along his sides and sweep to his neck. "If you wanted. Whatever you wanted." John hummed agreement and began to line the architecture of his jaw with light kisses. "You could ask for anything, but you wouldn't have to, I'd already have offered it all," Sherlock said.

With a sigh of his name, John traced the tip of his nose across his cheek until his lips finally sealed with Sherlock's. It froze him, and he could do nothing but mingle their breath and will his legs not to give way. John rolled his hips into Sherlock, extracting a whimper that melted through his passivity. Signals fired off in his brain confusing him with a host of opposites.   _More John. Less space. Hard grip. Soft lips_. He relaxed and opened his mouth to the persistent nipping of his lower lip, and met John' tongue with his own. They could have had years of this, if he hadn't been so sure it was impossible. If they'd taken this step together even just one year ago, the ring on John's hand might have been his own. Sherlock kissed back with everything he was worth, if this might be the only time. Fingers dipped into the curls at his nape with a slight tug. Sherlock brought one of his own cold hands to the curve of John's backside, gripping him closer until they both moaned. With the other he slipped between jumper and skin to map a path up John's spine. The other man shivered at the touch before nearly tackling Sherlock backward in his urgency to exchange pleasure. He wanted to deliver on all of his promises _now_ , and make a thousand more, but knew tonight was too soon. This had been a stumble on a longer road, but now he knew the destination. He allowed himself to gather John's head in the cradle of his hands, and let his tongue flick against its mate one last time before he pulled away. John was breathing heavily, his eyes snapped open in confusion.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock apologized. He didn't struggle to remove himself from clinging arms yet, instead trying to draw on their strength.

"Please, what's the matter?" John's eyes darted across Sherlock's worried features and he held him a little tighter.

"I'm afraid if I don't deny myself now, there might be nothing to come back to. We could misstep with Mary, or Magnussen."

"There will always be threats, Sherlock. Is there ever going to be a right time?"

"I'll make the time," Sherlock echoed. He pressed a soft kiss to the other man's forehead, and then dropped his arms to catch John's hands. "The three of us can have all the time in the world."

John made one sharp nod to agree, and swallowed back any argument. "Thank you," he murmured.

 

*****

 

They trampled across the open field toward the helicopter, John pulling on his coat and grumbling.

“When you said we had a Christmas engagement with Magnussen I didn't think you literally meant On The Day.”

“We're not going to pull crackers with him, John. But it is nice to get all of one's visiting out of the way." He hadn't been lucky enough to arrange a visit with his own parents the last time he headed toward a confrontation this fraught.

"I suppose even you couldn't arrange an inconspicuous helicopter pick up in London,” John conceded.

 

******

 

Sherlock had anticipated his exile the moment Magnussen had revealed that his Appledore was an intangible memory palace, like his own. He'd have to destroy it as planned. But the “it” in this matter was a “him”, and the law would be rather strict about that distinction. He watched impotently while Magnussen humiliated John Watson. That made the deed slightly easier to embrace.

So he eliminated Charles Augustus Magnussen. On his own, or even with Mycroft's help John could find a way to prove Mary's involvement with Sherlock's shooting after the baby was born.  She'd be incarcerated. They'd be safe. He decided it would be better to let John believe he would be all right as well. John didn't do ordinary loss. When John hurt, Sherlock was certain the whole world was put off tilt.

“Back to Serbia with you then,” droned his brother. “Familiar faces. You'll be briefed in the air.”

On the tarmac Sherlock said his goodbyes. “Look after him” _God help you, if you let him come to harm_ . “I'll keep him in trouble” _I'm certain of it_. He stood in front of John for what he knew to be the last time. He tried to express that he was unworthy. He thought of putting words to the sentiments still unexpressed between himself and John. As he began to close in on the words he saw in John's eyes that there would be no relief in it. He held back. It was an inadequate parting, but there was barely any time for more than a token effort of damage control. Sherlock suspected it was probably better to keep the world on tilt if you're about to launch an aeroplane off of it.

Four minutes later they're turning around, preparing for landing. Preparing for the next act of the Moriarty drama. Sherlock was surprised they didn't have to dump fuel to be within acceptable landing weight after such a short duration.

This was anticipated then. _Mycroft_ . He was immediately certain. His brother never expended such energy on something without several ulterior motives. He preferred Sherlock alive- incidental. Sherlock's departure was clearly a ruse planned for someone's benefit and there had only been 6 attendees - interesting.   _Something is about to happen_. Sherlock plucked at the envelope containing the canceled briefing and slid out a handful of official pages. Rosters from a Serbian compound. A last hold out of suspected Moriarty affiliates. Half way down the first page a jot of Cyrillic script caught his eye: AGRA. The shadowy picture below featured a brunette, somewhat more gaunt than he'd ever seen her, and un-enhanced by her customary cosmetics. Familiar faces, indeed.

When Sherlock exited the landed plane, everything looked much the same as before. He strode out to be welcomed by a line of people he'd only just left, some with the impression it was for the last time. Despite his miraculous return, nearly every face was lined with dread. Only John appeared to be struggling with looking properly worried. _Oh God, yes_. Sherlock could have grabbed his hand and ran them back to London, he was so thrilled. Mycroft stepped forward to shake his brother's hand, then turned back to his driver.

“Would you please see Mrs. Watson home. My brother and Doctor Watson will be needing to coordinate with The Yard immediately.” The man crossed back to the town car, opening a passenger door. Mary lingered, her mouth in a twist of worry.

“Their verification is of the original suicide is crucial, as there's little else to begin with,” prompted Sherlock, prepared to follow Mycroft’s lead. "We'll need analysis of the distribution strategy for the video, as well."

"Do you think it’s a copycat?" asked John. Mary squeezed his hand, momentarily breaking him away from the promise of a chase. He turned to her, "You need to go with Mycroft's man. You'll be safe."

"Don't do anything stupid," she sputtered, throwing her arms around his neck. Looking on the verge of tears, she ambled off to the car, waving once more before the driver shut the door.

Once Mary's car was a rapidly shrinking dot on the empty airfield, John and Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “Touching rescue, Mycroft. Though it’s not like you to disrupt National Security for me, usually it’s the other way around.”

“I may have anticipated such a diversion, but I didn't personally arrange it. Convenient though. It's almost like someone doesn't want you to leave England." He flashed one of his imperturbable smiles at them both and John cleared his throat nervously. "Like I said. Here be dragons.”

Once the three men were seated in the second car John finally burst, “Should I even bother to ask what’s going on?”

“Someone operating in the image of Moriarty would like to make their presence known, Doctor,” deigned Mycroft.

“So we’ll go to The Yard-”

“And tie up some loose ends,” Sherlock said. He shot a glance at Mycroft, and caught his affirmative nod. “There’s something else. Mycroft has uncovered intelligence linking someone to Moriarty. Someone who is still on the job.” John’s face drained of color, and he swore under his breath.

“It's Mary isn't it?! Perfect. No wonder, really,” he laughed bitterly. “What, was she assigned to me? Was any of it real?” The venom in his question put a lump in Sherlock’s throat.

“It’s unclear what her mission was,” Mycroft interceded. “I suspect she was placed to be your minder, and genuinely came to be...attached to you,” he said, lip curling. “She wanted to come in from the cold, but Magnussen held information of some kind that kept her from completing her final objective.”

"Whoever staged the reappearance is likely to be impatient with Mary for her failure,” Sherlock said.

“And has now assured Sherlock will not be absent,” reminded Mycroft. “Which is why I think we should refrain from ruling out your old playmate.”

“Get in touch with Anderson, I want him on hand,”said Sherlock. John’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

At the Met, a buzz of panic dominated every corridor. Clusters of co-workers whispered to each other, _What device was it? Your computer?! Your phone?! Do you think it’s real?_  Sherlock imagined this was likely the trend even in establishments not responsible for law enforcement. He growled at a pack of secretaries that blockaded Lestrade’s office, and they bustled apart in shock while he and John barged in.

“Sherlock, didn’t you watch him blow his own head off? I didn’t just imagine going over that police report sixty times, right?” Lestrade was still garbed in casual wear, evidently having already started his evening, by the smell of hops on his angry breath.

“That was my impression at the time, but I was a bit busy orchestrating my own demise. If you want to kick theories around, you ought to talk to Anderson, I’ve had him called in.”

“You’ve had him called in? So you’re running this investigation now?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, and John stepped forward “We know who Moriarty’s lieutenant is, how to draw them out, and what they most want. But we need your help.”

Lestrade’s mouth fixed in a line while his dark eyes bore into Sherlock. “You’re going to tell me where you’re going, and you’ll both be wearing vests,” he commanded. “What do you need?”

“Ballistics blood, access to a cell, and the filthiest mop bucket in the building. John, I hope you have your phone,” he said.

 

********

 

Sherlock tapped out a message on John’s mobile to Contact: Mary.

__________________iMessage____________________

Jan 05, 2015, 23:37

I'm tired of waiting, dear. Finish it now, and John won't

ever need to know our little secret. Don't finish it, and his

knowing won't last for long

Attached: 00000203.jpg

The image was only the first in a series he would send over the next hour. With the help of Anderson, Sherlock staged John’s apparent kidnapping. On the floor of a disused cell chosen for its optimal mould problem they spilled out a bucket used to clean up sick from the drunk tank. Cuffed and suffering an apparent blow to the head, they positioned John for a few alarming camera-phone pictures.

“I don’t suppose Lestrade can arrange a change of trousers,” he groaned. His knees, shins, and backside were wet with contents of the bucket. Sherlock considered that the stench might not be suited to the covert next-step of his plan.

“I’m sure someone has a spare in their locker,” he imagined. Something from the back of his mind slid into place. Another smell he associated with lockers, and now with Mary. He knew exactly where she would head first, receiving such a threat.

“Sherlock?”

“John, you are brilliant. We’ll need to leave in the next ten minutes to beat her there, so hurry up,” he said, quickly silencing the phone before slipping it back in John's coat pocket.

Sherlock wasn’t the only person in London with boltholes. As soon as he was back on his feet post-shooting, Sherlock had begun to seek out the hiding place for Mary’s supposed arsenal. Her method of entry at Magnussen’s office, her attire, and her weaponry all spoke to off-site, accessible storage. Potentially someplace in plain sight, like her. Somewhere she wouldn’t need an excuse to be. Only with the final piece of her puzzle, the Moriarty connection- did he realize just where it was.

 

*******  

 

Sherlock waited in one cubicle while John sat in the next. It felt cheap to recycle the trick, but a simple trap was often the cleverest, in Sherlock's experience. He couldn't hear any whisper of John nearby, so he tried to channel the other man's calm to master his own nervous energy. He breathed in, slow and deliberate, allowing the aroma of chlorine to flood through him, remind him. Sherlock had brought himself to focus when he finally heard the sound of metal hinges creak as a door at the far end of the room opened. Foot fall drew nearer his position. Passing John. Passing him. She carried on toward the lockers. Sherlock waited until that moment and then stepped out from behind his cover.

“This is a turn up isn’t it, Mary?”

She stopped in her tracks without turning around.

“The place of our first meeting holds a special place in my heart. I think it does for you too.”

“Sherlock-”

“You saw something you liked in John Watson that night. If I remember correctly that's when you dropped David, at any rate. What a coincidence.”

“He has John,” she said, placing deliberation in every word. “I have to finish what I started.”

Her mobile beeped, but she didn't check it, or even withdraw her hands from her pockets.

“Are you to be my executioner, after all?” asked Sherlock.

“Not everything is about you, Sherlock,” she sighed. Her high colored cheeks betrayed no fear. She rocked slightly on her feet, swollen belly protruding from a coat not suited to maternity wear. “Jim might have been happy to tangle with you both, but that didn't end very well for him. James is a bit more sentimental about brothers these days, but even so- he decided you deserved to be punished.”

Sherlock hadn't considered that. _Brothers._  Twins. Obvious. This new menace wasn't borrowing Jim Moriarty's image, they had been exploiting their similarity.

“-He started to notice your little crime solving sprees popping up on the fringes of the empire,” Mary concluded.

“Mycroft. That's why he didn't want me going after Magnussen. He held evidence that kept you from completing your task, didn't he?” _Go against Magnussen, and you will find yourself going against me,_  he had said.

“Not anymore,” she said, turning on her heel and pushing past him back towards the exit. Sherlock caught her arm.

“Where are you off to now Mrs. Watson?”

“You're going to let me go. Because James has John,” she still didn't blanch. There was no fear, only determination of control.

“He'll know what you've done to Mycroft. He'll suspect you.”

“How can he suspect me when a hospital record has me experiencing false labor across London right now?”

“He sees a lot more than he's given credit for,” John said, stepping out behind her. She finally gasped, breaking free of Sherlock's clutching hold to face her husband.

“John," she nearly sobbed. "You just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you,” she spat. "This didn't ever have to involve you." Sherlock felt thunderous, but John replied first.

“You made me your hostage!" he shouted back. "You aligned with someone bent on destroying the life of the best man I know, and then nearly ended it when he offered to help you.” John seethed, though he stance remained deadly still. "You found me in pieces and put me back together so you could have the pleasure of smashing me again yourself. It involves me!"

Mary stepped back from them both, eyes glittering with reflected light from the lapping water of the pool. "You want your daughter to have no mother? You think she'd be any safer with you vigilante maniacs, while I rot in prison? Moriarty will still be out there!”

"My daughter will have people who are capable of caring for her, and not just because it's in their best interest," John rumbled. He straightened his back- "So will I."

Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth tug. He recovered from the softened feeling and closed in on Mary. “Give us what you have on James Moriarty and perhaps we'll be able to arrange something more comfortable. Someday he's going to come to collect on you, Mary, if you don't first.”

She stared at Sherlock, weighing the truth of his bargain against her options. Slowly, Mary nodded, running her hand over her belly.

“There's a safe house arranged, where you would have been detained either way,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone to fire off one last text. A moment later the door swung open again, and Anthea entered.

“I'll take it from here, gentlemen,” she said, as she stalked up to the trio. If Sherlock had a hundred opportunities to handpick an escort for his brother's would-be assassin, he'd choose Anthea every time. She tucked a hand into Mary's arm that had been trained in martial arts he'd have no hope in defending himself against. Anthea marched Mary toward the exit before turning back and calling out, “Oh, and Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes.” The door shut, and the pressure John must have been containing released in a sudden pant.

"It is, isn't it?" John mused, still breathless. "I didn't get you anything." Sherlock laughed so deeply when he caught John's deadpan look that his belly did a flip.

Sherlock usually never paid the date any attention, but supposed it was a good omen at the end of what had been a tumultuous day. He'd been forced to abandon John, then pulled back from the brink of exile, confronted with the return of his arch nemesis, and then topped it off with capturing Mary before her crimes got anyone else killed. Perhaps that was worth celebrating.

John must have agreed, because he suddenly threw an arm around Sherlock, pulling him in close by the scruff of his neck and planting a kiss.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped in surprise. "I must have been good this year."

John wrapped his hands into Sherlock's scarf and dragged him in again. Sherlock let him drive the contact, still disbelieving that anything so good as John could happen to him. "Amazing," he proclaimed between deep wet kisses. "You're always amazing. Now take me home."

"Worried I might try ripping your clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, again?"

"Is that a threat or promise?" replied John, grabbing a handful of Sherlock's arse to steer him towards the exit- which suddenly opened of its own accord.

A third voice coughed in interruption, "Gentlemen..." Mycroft strolled in ahead of a unit of his agents, who began to sweep the room in search of Mary's cache. “There are some matters that I think you'd prefer we settle before you...retire for the evening,” he said with distaste.

Although Sherlock might have relished in spiteing Mycroft, he broke apart from John. "I imagine you still have some micromanaging left in you, even at this late hour," he sighed. "You may as well make yourself useful as well as ornamental and give us a lift home."

In the car Mycroft revealed his concerns. "It is unlikely we can extract Moriarty's whereabouts without exposing and releasing Mary, or Abigail Grace Roberts Ames, as she is better known. There will need to be arrangements for her child's safety, if you don't wish them to both vanish."

John's face dropped from the smug look he'd been enjoying since Mycroft caught them groping. Sherlock slid a hand across the seat to brush his. Of course. Mary's cover would be blown, and it would be up to Mycroft how much mercy was to be bestowed upon her for any information she provided. It was an agonizing choice, that Sherlock insisted that must be John's decision they followed. The three men finally agreed it was best to make a cover identity for the baby and entrust her to a third party until Moriarty was defeated.

"The difficulty will be identifying someone who can be trusted, and agree to that level of security and commitment," Sherlock pointed out.

John spoke slowly, like he didn’t want to lend any power to his fear by voicing it, "Someone who would- be willing to give her back after what could be months. Maybe even years," he realized. "Christ, would we even be able to see her? Would she know I was her father?"

Sherlock felt his heart constrict. What if, for all their fighting and subterfuge to protect this little life, she wanted nothing to do with absent parents? He looked to Mycroft gravely.

"Brother, can't you think of anyone who already lives under top surveillance, and would never deny you anything?" he hinted.

"Mummy," Sherlock answered.

"We could forge Baby Watson's death at birth, and place her at the Holmes homestead as an obscure cousin, with a nanny posing as parent, for local appearances. You'd be able to visit at holidays without arousing much suspicion." Mycroft and Sherlock watched John consider the suggestion.

"She- she'd be a Holmes, then?" he clarified. Mycroft nodded.

"When you settle on a name, yes."

John looked over to Sherlock, who was still trying to guard any display of optimism. "All right. I couldn't have picked a better family if I tried. Really. Thank you. For everything you've done. Even you, Mycroft." Sherlock was stunned silent.

"Always pleased to hear my opinion back to me by a competent authority," said Mycroft, shaking his hand just as the car pulled up to Baker Street. "Gentlemen. Your stop." Sherlock slipped out of the car first.

"We'll regroup tomorrow, I guess?" John was still giving Mycroft the tail end the only genuine smile Sherlock had ever witnessed between the two as he bid goodnight.

"Once more unto the breach," he called out.

Sherlock lead John to the door, anxious and uncertain about the expectations either of them might have during their temporary reprieve. Unfortunately there was no Athena to grant them a near-endless night at the end of their odyssey. He was at a loss for words ever since John had so happily bound himself to the Holmes name. He felt as though all the momentum he'd been powered by had evaporated and he was rudderless. When they finally stepped into the privacy of their flat he was nearly prepared for John to hang up his jacket and head up to his room alone. The moment he turned around from hanging up his own coat he found himself pinned to the door instead.

"What can I do to never see that look on your face again, Sherlock?"

Two hands framed his jaw with tenderness. It was an anchor after all, not the end of a voyage. _You could stay, you are staying, I'm staying. How could I forget?_

"Close your eyes."

John did, and Sherlock barely had to tilt his chin to press a kiss just above each set of pale eyelashes. That lead to the little crease nearest his left brow, and the lines that ran along each  infra-orbital ridge. He was greedy for every detail, now that he had discarded the denial he'd been hiding behind.

"Sherlock," John whispered, nudging up in an attempt to catch the lips that flurried across every one of Sherlock's favourite features. "You don't have to worry. This won't be your last chance."

Sherlock paused, and John opened his eyes again. "No? Of course not."

"I'm not going anywhere. I love you, Sherlock. I'm _in_  love with you," John explained slowly.

"I- John. You-," he stammered, which he at least felt like was an improvement over his response when John had declared Sherlock was his best friend. "You must know that-" he gulped.

"-that Sherlock is a girl's name?" John grinned. "Is there anything else you want to share?"

"Everything. I love you."

John surged on him again, crashing them together with teeth and sensation of warm lips and thoughts of _Please Yes Oh_. There were years of dormant longing finally touched by a live wire and animated into being. Sherlock felt hands scrambling at his waist, undoing his suit jacket and pushing up at his shirt tails until they came free. He matched the exploratory endeavor by licking his way into John's mouth. He tasted like coffee, and little else, and Sherlock realized he must not have eaten since that morning.

"You must be hungry."

"Ravenous," John growled, nearly dropping to his knees. He dipped his tongue into Sherlock's navel, having already rucked the man's shirt to his armpits. He drew a line up Sherlock's body, gently mouthing at the little knot of scar before laving his right nipple while pinching the left. No one had ever taken their time with Sherlock before. No one had sought to share meals with him, or engage with his work for the joy of it rather than the utility. No one had ever made love to him like this. He'd only just realized he'd been starved for years.

"Oh god." Sherlock moaned, recognizing he'd become hard and that was John's intention. He strained to keep from bucking into John's chest and plunging them over while the other man bit and kissed his collar bone.

"S'alright Sherlock, that's the idea," he said, uprighting himself and pulling his body close. Sherlock could feel a rigid response to his own arousal pressed against his thigh. John took him by the hands and drew him away from the wall. "Can we go to bed?" His eyes filled with possessive darkness, and Sherlock could only nod. He let John lead him through the flat into his own bedroom like it was uncharted territory. In a way, it was. They were defining a new terrain with every word and touch, several of which occurred against the hallway wall, interrupting their trek. There wasn't a fastened button on Sherlock (or John's) body by the time his back hit the bed.

"You're so gorgeous," John said, kissing his neck as he crawled over him. "I can't believe how long it took me to get my hands on you."

He gripped at the material of Sherlock's clothing at his shoulders and tugged to remove it. Sherlock sat up, with John set across his lap, pulling tailored silk sleeves down his arms and flinging them to the floor.

"Off," Sherlock demanded, pulling the rest of John's attire over his head with similar disregard. With their bare chests finally pressed together he could now imagine what it might feel like, to be naked against him, from head to toe. He kissed John again, and held on. Teeth nibbled his plush lip, and released tiny little gasps into his mouth while he ground his hips up into John's weight. He was an unrelenting conniption of desire that was begging for friction. John planted his hands at his shoulders, using the leverage to bear down into Sherlock' rutting.

"I love you," repeated John, "-and I want you in every way you want to give to me, but I'm certain I'll come off the second you put your genius hands on my cock so you'd better pick what it is you want for right _now_."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. As much as he wanted to taste John, or be filled by him to the point of bursting he wanted more to _immediately_  see the rush of pleasure on his face instead of the hurt he had continually been the cause of. He toppled them over, clumsily looming over the other man while he pulled off his trousers and pants all at once. Merciful John, his best deputy turned lover- took the hint and shucked his own remaining clothes. Sherlock draped himself along John's body, covering him. He would always cover him, protect him. He would put himself first in line to preserve this man, with no regrets. He told him so, softly, then licked a stripe up the man's neck.

"Jesus, Sherlock," panted John, with Sherlock's hand on him at last. He sat back and watched, entirely rapt with the flutter of John's eyes, and quirk of his mouth as he gasped in answer to every stroke. Sherlock leant back down and kissed him despite the stream of expletives that boiled over from that hot mouth. He swiped a thumb over the leaking head that thrust into his fist, and realized his own erection had nestled between his John's thighs when they suddenly clenched around him.

"John," he pleaded, pushing into the action, "Again." He moaned into his mouth when John obliged him, over and over, before finally sputtering at the approach of his orgasm.

"I'm going to- oh please," he cried. Sherlock's eyes had been screwed shut in his exertion, and they flew open. He had to catalog this so he could keep it forever. He had to remember exactly how it felt to finally tip the man he loved into madness beneath him. John shuddered and came, swearing his name in riotous groans until Sherlock did the same, spending himself between John's legs. His heart continued racing for moments he feared might not end. It was excruciating to be so happy after such a long and steadfast refusal to hope it was possible. John finally rolled them over and stilled him with gentle lips on his own.

"You all right? This is the quietest I ever remember you being," asked John. He flicked a sweaty curl off Sherlock's forehead and replace it with a kiss.

"I was busy...feeling," he replied, experimentally. "First time for everything I suppose."

"I don't believe that."

"Hmm?"

"No," John laughed. "You have been all along."

John excused himself to the loo, while Sherlock watched daylight creep at the window and wake the birds outside. He listened to birdsong while John returned to the bed with a flannel and his customary compassion, cleaning his body that was still melted in bliss. At last he felt tired, and John curled up next to him, head on his chest.

"I've thought of a name."

"Not 'Billie'. There are entirely too many 'Billys' here," John muttered without opening his eyes.

"Robin."

 _A winter bird. A heroic outlaw. Abigail Grace Roberts Ames_ (perhaps he'd never bring that part up).

"S'nice," he yawned, "As long as she doesn’t support Swindon Town."

Sherlock gave his haughtiest scoff on John's behalf. "Never."

"Robin Holmes. All right."

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't fic *too* often, but when I do you can be sure to hear about it over at stitchlock on tumblr :D Thanks!


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